


In Which Everyone Lives

by diphylleia_grayi



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Gen, Genderswap, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-17 17:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diphylleia_grayi/pseuds/diphylleia_grayi
Summary: A series of oneshots inspired by AU prompts.13: "Who wouldn't be angry you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!"





	1. in which life is very complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m the private investigator that was hired by your ex to track you down and you totally caught me sitting outside your apartment in a rental car so hi waddup” AU

Saihara Shuri  _hates_ her life. She also hates infidelity cases, missing persons cases, and surveillance cases. Unfortunately, her life hates her right back, which is why she’s spent the past two days in a rental car trying to figure out where the hell her target actually _l_ _ives_.

Her target is Amami Rana, 21 years old, studying marine biology at Hope’s Peak, a nearby university - and by nearby, she means _literally_ right next to her. Amami had arrived on campus at around 20:37 last night with a rucksack about the size of a small house. Her first stop was the convenience store on campus, which was thankfully lined with glass panes on the side facing the car park. Shuri hates driving, especially in the city, and her butt _hurt_.

About halfway through a cigarette, Amami headed towards the library. Shuri had never attended Hope's Peak herself, but she knows she’d get kicked out within twenty minutes if she’d tried to follow, so she’d waited in the car for Amami’s return.

And waited.

And waited.

Shuri had taken on this case so she wouldn’t end up sleeping in her car, but she’d ended up doing just that anyway. Thankfully it’s not so cold anymore, and her scarf is big enough to use as a blanket. Once the supermarket opened the next morning, Shuri had stocked up on some necessities, and she’d looked so pitiful by that point that a wide-eyed employee let her use the staff toilets to freshen up. Now she’s back in the car, alternating between crappy pop music and exuberant radio presenters and waiting for Amami to finish up her all-nighter looking like death.

Except when Amami finally emerges from the library, she looks wide awake and perfectly untroubled. Shuri has never hated her life more - at least until Amami strolls past her open window. She's cheerfully humming a song Shuri thought she should recognise, and comes to a halt at the bus stop.

Shuri groans. Where to _now_?

Two towns away, it turns out. By the time Shuri pulls up behind a grey Fiesta, Amami is already heading into one of the houses. It’s just as well she’d stocked up earlier, because this place is dead, probably only coming alive when students get drunk. Shuri had tried student life for a year, only because her family had strongly encouraged it, and she has yet to recover from the trauma. Rotting food… fires… maggots…

Shuri shudders. Nope. She doesn’t miss student life at all.

An hour passes and Amami still hasn’t left. Shuri’s phone is approaching death once again, so she plugs it in and puts her feet up on the passenger seat. Pulling down the brim of her hat blocks out the sunlight completely. She hadn’t been able to sleep properly the night before, what with being a scrawny young female alone in a city in a rental car in the middle of the night and all, and she misses her Natu and she smells awful and she wants a proper meal and she’s _tired_ , damn it. Shuri decides to take a little nap. Worst case scenario, she’d miss Amami leaving, but it would be a lot easier to find her this time. Shuri closes her eyes.

_Knock knock knock._

Shit. Shuri swivels around to look out of the driver’s window, and finds… Amami Rana… grinning at her.

As instructed, Shuri rolls the window down. Amami crosses her forearms on the seal, her many bracelets knocking against the door, and peers inside with a quiet hum. Shuri backs up a little. Reason #3854 why she hates surveillance cases: the consequences of failing are, at best, _highly_ awkward.

Amami casts a cursory glance over Shuri. She snorts. “You’re a shit stalker, you know that?”

Shuri doesn’t even know where to begin. Social interactions have never been her strong point, which is why she specialises in investigations that don’t involve too many of those, and here she is anyway. Shuri doesn’t even bother to think the words _I hate my life_ anymore because it’s an emotion now.

“First of all.” Shuri pauses to clear her throat. She hadn’t properly spoken in two days. She lives a sad, sad life. “I’m not a stalker. I’m a detective.”

Amami’s eyebrows rise into her hairline, but she still looks so damn amused by this whole situation that Shuri kind of wants to try punching her - _try_ being the key word. Shuri takes naps after five sit-ups, so she’s not exactly a terrifying opponent. “And you’re investigating me?”

Shuri wants to make a snarky remark, but she takes a deep breath. She’s already fucked up by getting caught, so why not dig a deeper hole for herself?

“My name is Saihara Shuri, and I work as a private investigator. My client has requested my services to investigate your current location, his claims of your infidelity, and whether or not you possess certain goods that have been stolen from him.”

Amami’s shoulders slump as she sighs. “ _Fujimoto_ , that motherfucker. Does he have nothing better to do with his money?”

Shuri straightens. “What do you mean by that exactly?”

Amami snorts. She had spoken with Unova's rhotic accent, but now she lapses into the rhythmic lilt of Alola. “He has way too much money for his own good is what I mean. Now that’s not something I usually complain about, but Daniel  _hates_ saving up. He spends _way_ too much on drinks. He buys all this random _shit_ that he ends up throwing out a month later. Plus, that bastard is cheating on _me_. He wanted to know my location, did he? He would’ve known where I was going _i_ _f he’d slept at home that night_.”

Shuri nods as she bites her lip. Amami’s story is very different to her client’s, but after her investigation of Fujimoto's apartment, she could certainly believe some of those claims.

The passenger door slams shut, and suddenly Amami is sitting on a fully reclined seat, her rucksack on her lap and her feet propped up on the dashboard. Amami’s skirt is awfully short.

“I mean, sure, I guess I messed around with a couple of his mates when we got a little drunk, but he was  _right there_ egging me on. That’s called  _swinging_ , not cheating, for God’s sake. That son of a bitch, on the other hand, shags anything with a-”

“Amami-san.”

“-and he has the nerve to claim that I- and he  _knows_ my current location! Or rather, he knows I have nowhere else to go. Where the hell does he think I’m hiding these-” Amami forms quotation marks with her fingers. “- _'_ _stolen goods_ ’ exactly? I’ve been crashing at my friends’ places, staying overnight at university, waiting for _one more_ paycheck so I can put down a deposit- damn, it  _sure_ would be helpful if I had his diamond-encrusted headset, or his Swarovski magnifying glasses that he apparently needs to see his  _toothpick_ of a-”

“Amami-san, please.”

“-but unfortunately I don’t have anything of his, and you can see for yourself because I’ve literally been living out of this rucksack since moving out. Do you wanna see? Do you?”

“Amami-san, I believe you.”

Amami takes a deep breath. Her hair is slightly damp; a few pear-green strands are clinging to her neck. Shuri is a little overwhelmed by the amount of jewellery on her ear. She hadn’t even known that daith piercings were a thing now. Shuri herself had wanted standard lobe piercings for about two decades now, but she still hasn’t quite gotten around to it yet.

Amami chuckles. She turns her head to the side, and at this angle Shuri can’t hide behind her hat unless she straight up shoves her face into it. “You probably didn’t wanna know about your client’s sex life. Sorry about that.”

Shuri pinches the bridge of her nose. She's not gonna be able to look her client in the eye after this.

“I’m just going to run through exactly what my client reported as missing. Now I’m not saying you _have_ them,” she adds hastily upon seeing Amami’s scowl. “But maybe you have a vague idea of where they might be? It’ll help a lot with the investigation if I could just clarify everything with you.”

Amami sighs in resignation. “Shoot.”

Shuri reaches back for the little red notebook lying on the seats, flicks through it until she finds the entries for Fujimoto Daniel. “He’s missing a light box, a snow cone maker, some cushions, a personalised mug, some bath bombs-”

Amami raised her hand. “Is everything on that list either my own personal belongings or gifts he gave me when we were together?”

“I…” Shuri trails her finger down the list. “I suppose they may be, if you phrase it that way.”

Amami places her feet back on the ground. Shuri notes the faintest trace of dirt on her windscreen. “I can’t believe I got myself into this,” she murmurs, hugging her rucksack close. “Petty brat.”

Shuri adjusts herself to be a little more comfortable. “So let me get this straight. Your ex-boyfriend is trying - in an unhealthy, creepy, roundabout way - to try and... reconcile things with you?”

Amami scoffs. “Sounds about right. One of my friends helped me move out of Daniel's apartment, and most of my stuff is sitting in his house. His house already has too many people as it is, and I didn’t want to impose on anyone so…” She gives a dry laugh. Shuri can see the bags beneath her eyes, and her heart aches a little. “I’m basically kinda homeless right now, but I’m blessed with good friends so… it’s okay.”

Shuri doesn’t know what to say. “Amami-san, I’m very sorry things have turned out this way.”

That earns her a chuckle. “Nothing like a brush with poverty to remind you to keep your head down, right? Besides, I get my paycheck at the end of the week, so it’s all good. Anyway, you know my side of the story now. If you wanna make sure that I don’t have any of Daniel's-”

“That’s okay. I need to clarify some things with my client first.”

Amami laughs at her deadpan expression. “Yeah, he’s a nutjob. Listen, I know he has that sleek, shiny desk in his office, but don’t be banging him on it or he’ll send an investigator after you next.”

Shuri flushes bright red. “That’s- I’m- I’ll have you know that I conduct myself professionally at all times, Amami-san, and _especially_ when I’m working.”

Amami raises an eyebrow. “Sure, sure. Hey, if Fujimoto decides he wants to be an assclown again, you’re gonna have to go through all the trouble of tracking me down again, aren’t you?”

Shuri shrugs. “If my client turns out to be… ah, how should I say it?... full of shit, then I’ll most likely discontinue this investigation. Otherwise, yes, I’ll have to track you down again.”

Amami shoots her a lazy smile. “How about I make your life a little easier and just give you my number?”

Shuri gives an embarrassed chuckle. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but if I can just call up my surveillance target to ask where they are, I feel like I’ve failed as a detective.”

“Your surveillance target, huh?” Amami’s lips quirk into a smirk. “Say, how about you just drop this case altogether because of conflict of interest?”

Shuri blinks. Blinks. Blushes. “...What interest?”

Amami sighs, brings a hand to her face. “Am I crossing a line here? I can back off if you want me to.”

Shuri splutters. “Oh- Wait- You really were-”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Shuri’s entire body feels very warm. She curses her decision to wear black today, then remembers that everything she owns is black. “In that case, I would greatly appreciate it if you could make my life easier, yes.”

She’s still pretty sure that Amami just wants free food, but this avocado girl is cute and she’s _lonely_ , damn it. Life is too short not to make decisions she’d regret for the rest of her life.

Amami saves her name on Shuri’s phone as ~* _RANA AMAMI*~_. Shuri’s fingers twitch. She can't say she's a big fan of fancy embellishments.

“Hmm…” Shuri had drop-called Amami’s phone as requested, and now Amami’s carefully manicured nails are tapping against the screen. On her middle finger is a boat's wheel. “What did you say your name was, Detective-san? Saihara?”

Shuri swallows. “Saihara Shuri, yes.”

Ignoring her weak attempts at maintaining a facade of propriety, Amami saves the detective’s name as _[ SHURI SAIHARA ]_. She supposes she can tolerate that.


	2. in which everyone are dicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I saw you trying to hit the 'door close' button in the elevator but I made it in and then I pushed every single button to make you later for work, but now we’re stuck in this fucking elevator as it stops at every single floor and I don’t know what to say other than 'you started it'" AU

It’s been an awful day for Chabashira Tenko. After running out of his favourite breakfast cereal, spending ten minutes waiting for the lift because some menace decided to take their sweet time waiting for their companions, realising he’d forgotten something he really shouldn’t have, deciding that he’d try and manage without it because it’s more important that he doesn’t miss the bus to work, missing his bus to work, and after getting to work he-

No, he isn’t going to think about that anymore. It’s over. His legs ache and his back aches and he has a headache now and he just wants to collapse into bed already. But unfortunately for him, his day is only about to get worse, because two seconds after entering his building he walks straight into the fucking pool table.

Tenko swears. He’d complained about some menaces leaving their shit lying around in the communal areas more times than he cares to remember, but apparently no one cares about other people’s concerns unless said concerns are also their own. He pushes the table against the nearest wall before heading for the lift.

Thankfully, the lift seems to be working this time. It dings within a minute and Tenko thanks whichever God happens to be listening before he steps inside. After pressing the button for the seventeenth floor, he leans back against the mirror and sighs. Now that he’s so close to home, the tiredness weighing down his body has become impossible to ignore. But he can’t sleep just yet. He still needs to take Growlithe out for his evening walk, and stop by the supermarket for cereal… and groceries in general, now that he thinks about it. Great. He wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.

Too lost in his thoughts, Tenko doesn’t notice someone running for the lift until they make it inside. Muttering curses under his breath, the man slams his hand down on every. Single. Button.

“Dude, what the fuck?” the man growls. “This bag weighs as much as your beached Wailord of a mother. You see me struggling to carry this and you just _ignore_ me?”

So it’s one of those days. Tenko’s luck couldn’t get much worse than this.

With a sigh of resignation, he turns his head to the side. He doesn’t really want this charming gentleman splattering flecks of spittle all over his face. “No,” he says. The glass is refreshingly cool against his skin.

“No?” The menace is shouting now. Turning his head was a good call. “What the fuck do you mean by _no_? What kind of shitty human being are you?”

The lift opens on the first floor, where thankfully no one is waiting. Tenko presses the ‘close door’ and waits for them to start moving.

“By no, I meant  _no_ ,” he explains patiently. “I didn’t see you struggling to carry a bag that weighs as much as my beached Wailord of a mother, because I’m blind. Because of that, I cannot see you, just like I cannot see anyone or anything else. Does that answer your question?”

Silence. The man’s breathing slows, but it still sounds ragged. He really had been struggling to carry that bag.

“Oh, shit,” the menace murmurs. “Oh, man, I fucked up. _Dude_. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did when you gave me the chance,” Tenko points out.

The man groans. He sounds regretful enough that Tenko can’t find it in himself to stay angry. “Oh, God,” he says with the typical drawl from Hoenn. “I am so sorry.”

Third floor. It seems they’re gonna be here for a while.

“I don’t hold your mistake against you.” Then Tenko’s tone turns severe. “However, I am _ashamed_ to find out that such a menace lives in my building. We in this building should be a community, looking out for each other’s well-being  _as well as_ our own. Your uncouth behaviour is the reason why our community is falling apart. If I ever happen to notice you’re being robbed, I might just offer to hold the flashlight.”

“That’s cold,” the man says.

Tenko grins. “Not gonna try and defend yourself?”

“No,” the man replies. He’s stepping away, and the door opens, and Tenko grabs his sleeve and pulls him right back inside. “Fuck. You ruined my plan.”

“You were actually gonna run?” Tenko scoffs. “Behind that tough-guy act, you’re actually a pussy, huh?”

The man… whimpers? What the fuck?

“Well, _excuse_ me.” The menace says. His voice is firm, but a little higher than before. Tenko can’t help but grimace as he realises what may have just happened. “Sorry for not wanting to die. You look like you could karate chop me to death.”

Tenko rolls his eyes. Fifth floor. “Okay, first of all, it’s called a knifehand strike. Secondly, you may not be too happy to find out I _do_ actually work at the dojo.”

“ _...WHAT the motherfucking shit fuck tofu nugget Quorn-_ ”

“I’m an aikido instructor,” Tenko continues. “But that’s only during the evenings and weekends. It’s more of a hobby than anything, but it makes me happy and that’s what matters, don’t you think?”

The man is… entirely silent. He’s stopped breathing. Or maybe his shouting earlier was to cover up the ding of the lift and now Tenko’s just standing here talking to himself. He doesn’t care either way.

“Yeah,” the menace says at last. Sixth floor. “Anyway, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“That’s because you shouted over it.”

“Oh, Christ-”

“I’m kidding,” Tenko deadpans. “You’re really all over the place. Come to the dojo sometime; we can help you stay focused.”

The menace laughs. “Yeah, no, thanks. I’m not willingly walking someplace where I can get my ass whooped.”

It’s difficult to keep his eyebrows in place. Time to move on. “Chabashira,” he says, holding out a hand. “17A.”

The man’s hands are rather calloused, and more than a little sweaty. “Iruma, 16B.”

“Oh, nice,” Tenko comments. Eighth floor. “You live opposite Harukawa-san?”

“You know Hairy-kawa?” Iruma sounds surprised. “I lived here for a couple of months before I first met him. He’s as sneaky as a teacher getting blown under a classroom table.”

Tenko decides not to justify that with a response. Ninth floor.

“So…” Iruma seems to be regretting all his life choices. Ah, the sweet taste of victory. “How did you meet Hairy-kawa?”

Tenko chuckles as the memory returns to him. “Well, basically, my Growlithe and I happened to get into the lift at the same time as him. Growlithe and Harukawa-san took a liking to each other straight away, so when Harukawa-san is around, he sometimes comes up for dinner. He doesn’t get much less mysterious with time, I’ll say that. All I know is that he likes maple fudge.”

Iruma hums in thought. “That story raises more questions than a _seifuku_ raises dicks. I’m intrigued. Invite me over next time Hairy-kawa visits, yeah?”

Tenko groans in disgust. “I’m glad it’s Harukawa-san who lives on your floor, you disgusting pervert.” The lift dings. “Get out. Don’t even think about setting foot on the seventeenth floor.”

The menace and his bag are already long gone. Just as well. If Tenko hadn’t forgotten his cane that morning, Iruma wouldn’t have avoided death so easily.


	3. in which no one gets laid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’m in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and your clothes are in the machine next to mine and I noticed that when you put your clothes in they were all covered in blood what the fuck" AU

It’s 1:43 AM, and Kaise can’t hold back her tears.

“Everything is part of the key connecting unto the future,” sings Itsuki Yui, balanced precariously on a rope stretched taut. “Feeling our bond within my collapsing body, I vow once more to protect you.”

Beside her on the bed is a bucket of popcorn, long since abandoned in favour of a bag of giant chocolate buttons. The clock on her nightstand casts a faint red glow onto an empty bottle of Pink Pepper. Not that she downed a whole bottle neat, mind you - just half of it. The other half had disappeared a week ago around the same time. This is Momota Kaise’s Saturday night tradition, and _nothing_ takes priority over anime.

Itsuki Yui falls from the rope, and the screen turns dark before YouTube pops up twelve more suggestions. Does she want to listen to Simple and Clean? Nah. She’s cried enough for one day.

Where’s the strap of her portable oxygen concentrator? Oh, hello. Over her head it goes. Kaise sways a little as she gets to her feet, stumbling across her apartment to check the calendar. What day is it again…?

Ah. Shit. Her grandparents are expecting her for lunch.

Kaise stumbles back to her wardrobe, peering into the wardrobe for anything relatively appropriate. She knows for a fact that she owns some cute leather trousers- ah, she’d worn that to her friend’s birthday party, but what about that glittery silk dress- ah, she’d worn that to the office dinner, but what about that cashmere jumper- ah, she’d accidentally dropped her lasagne onto it when she was trying to eat lying down, and those are all the grandparent-friendly articles of clothing that Kaise owns. Great. Time to do laundry.

1:49 AM. No sane person would be doing their laundry at this time on a Saturday. Kaise gathers up all the clothes strewn around her flat, locates her laundry hamper, grabs her phone and key, and she’s ready to go. Or not, because she’s just wearing a bralette and panties, but it doesn’t matter. Kaise is an omnibenevolent goddess. Her neighbours would consider themselves blessed to witness this glorious vision.

Kaise lives in the so-called penthouse of this particular block. Sure, it’s more spacious, but she wouldn’t exactly consider it luxurious. The extra space isn’t even necessary, because it’s just Kaise and her Gible here. Not that it matters. Kaise had chosen this building for its location on the outskirts of the city, where there isn’t so much pollution she can’t see the stars. An empty sky makes her homesick, and home is so far away.

Someone recently moved into the penthouse opposite, but she hasn’t met them yet, either because Kaise doesn’t have the time or because her neighbour is busy entertaining guests. About 98% of the time, it’s the latter. Today, her neighbour is quiet, and the lift is waiting silently on the fifth floor. Kaise calls it up and hums _LUVORATORRRRRY!_ as she waits.

The journey back to Earth is a smooth one, with in-flight entertainment supplied by Kaise herself. When she reaches the ground floor, the foyer is deserted apart from a dozing security guard, and Kaise makes her way to the communal laundry room. She thinks she sees its door click shut, but it’s probably just her imagination.

Or not. When Kaise opens the door, there’s a man standing in front of a washing machine. His shirt is white and red and a little rumpled, and it’s already in the machine. His trousers are black with a few darker patches, and he’s partway through taking them off. His boxers are crimson, and they’re still on. It’s a shame, Kaise thinks, because those glutes are out of this world.

The man whirls around, his eyes flashing red- nope, that’s just their natural colour. He casts a cursory glance over Kaise before turning back around. He carries on like nothing happened.

Okay then. Kaise heads over to a machine on the other side of the room, taking a sweet moment to appreciate the man she'll refer to as McDreamy. Those pecs, the broad shoulders, the toned legs, those abs that look firm enough to sit on, the veins running those arms, _mmm_. Even his back is attractive, and Kaise knows that people look ten times hotter when they’re a little roughed up, but this hunk must be a dreamboat even when he’s  _not_ covered in blood.

Huh. She should probably say something about that.

McDreamy is trying to pretend she’s not here, but his clenched jaw tells her he’s not succeeding. Of course not. McDreamy may be hot, but he’s not better-looking than her. She just needs to get him to take another peek.

“Club a little too lit for you?” Ugh. That wasn’t smooth. “Did you break anything?”

Mild concern and a disappointing sense of humour. Good job, Kaise. While most people get laid when they’re drunk, she makes everyone gynephobic. Just her shitty luck.

Surprisingly enough, McDreamy actually stops feigning deafness. “No, and yes.”

Oh, that’s a _deep_ \- Snap out of it, Kaise. The man’s injured.

“Aw, shit,” she says with a sympathetic wince. “Your nose?”

McDreamy looks straight at her. Kaise sees the bloody smudges on his cheek, and the fresh trail of blood flowing down to his chin. His lips twitch. “Yes, and my wrist and probably a few ribs.”

Kaise lets out a low whistle. “Christ. That club way clearly _way_ too lit. I’ll try and keep away from now on.”

He turns back to the machine with a snort. There’s nothing he needs to look at. He’s just trying to seem mysterious and shit. “You already seem to be doing a good job of keeping away.”

Kaise laughs. “Don’t make assumptions like that. _Friday_ nights are for clubbing. Saturday nights are for me.”

“Don’t make assumptions, you say? Who was it that assumed I was at the club earlier?”

She makes a sound of disbelief. She has nothing to say to that. “You should go and get cleaned up while the machine’s running,” she suggests instead.

He shoots her a deadpan look. “That was the plan until you stopped me.”

Kaise throws up her arms in defeat. “Okay, you win. Congrats. You get a fleeting sense of satisfaction from winning the most pointless argument in history- oh, _no_ , where is it?” After looking frantically around the room, she simply shrugs her shoulders. “Welp. The feeling’s already gone. Looks like you’re a frustrated single man again.”

He closes his eyes. Success. “Now you’re assuming that I’m single.”

“Of course you are. You’re a sidedick at best.”

“ _Do you want to die?_ ”

Kaise yelps. He sounds so serious that she feels a little concerned for her life, but that’s stupid. It’s a joke. Probably.

“Nah, I’m good,” she replies cheerily. “But if you’re telling the truth, then you’re sure that we won’t bump into your girlfriend on the way up, yeah?”

He shoots her a curious look. “What?”

“When we go up to your flat so I can help you patch up-”

“No.”

“-your wound? No? You don’t need any help?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Kaise shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just turns around to leave and Kaise isn’t having that today, no, siree. She briskly follows him into the foyer. “You never told me your name.”

“Harukawa,” he replies gruffly. The elevator hasn’t left the ground floor, so he steps in and presses the button labelled ‘16’. “Which floor?”

Kaise isn’t distracted. “What’s your given name?”

“Doesn’t matter. Which floor?”

“Momota Kaise. That’s my full name, so tell me yours.”

“No. Which floor?”

The Spice Girls are liars. Tonight is _not_ the night when two becomes one. Kaise sighs. “Eighteen, please.”

Harukawa presses the button. Now that they’re so close, Kaise can’t help but notice the stench of _days_ of sweat. She wrinkles her nose. “I can’t believe you got laid smelling like this.”

Harukawa lets out a pained sign. “I swear to God, Momota. For the last time, I was-” He snaps his mouth shut, teeth biting down on his lips so hard Kaise fears they may bleed. “I wasn’t doing anything you think I was doing. Don’t go spreading rumours about me. I just want to keep my head down and live quietly, _is that too much to ask_?”

Kaise winces. His voice is so sharp it physically hurts. “I got it, don’t worry. I’m a little all over the place on Saturday nights.”

Harukawa eyes her with a frown. “What have you been drinking?”

“Pink Pepper~”

“I’m asking about the percentage.”

She frowns. She can’t quite remember. Harukawa has a very neutral accent. Unovan, yes, but not quite rhotic enough to belong to a native. Perhaps Hoenni, like Kaise herself? Or maybe he's from Johto, or Almia, or the Orange Archipelago? Why is she thinking about this? What was the question again?

Oh, yeah. “Maybe around 44%?”

Harukawa stares at her for a long moment. “You really should have left your laundry for later.”

“But I’m perfectly fine!” She flashes him a peace sign. “See?”

“Yes, I can see that.” He’s deadly serious. “This addiction will kill you, if your lung condition doesn’t get to you first, and cirrhosis is a painful way to go. If you want to be sure you’ll go out cleanly, your best bet is to hire someone with the know-how. Just saying.”

Kaise blinks. Blinks. Blinks. “Dude, what the fuck? I don’t wanna _die_. This is a lifestyle choice.”

Harukawa raises an eyebrow. His eyebrow remains raised as they reach the sixteenth floor. When the doors close and he’s still in the lift, Kaise raises her eyebrows too.

“You seem to have lost your mind,” she says. “Would you like me to report it missing?”

His sigh is barely audible. “Momota, you’re not just drunk. You’re also naked and alone. As a fellow tenant, I feel obliged to make sure you get back home safely.”

“But…” Kaise’s neighbour seems to be asleep. “What about the dryer? I need dry clothes for lunch.”

“Eating scraps of cloth for lunch. Yet another questionable life choice.”

Kaise gapes. Was that a _joke_?

She’d snuck her way into Harukawa’s heart after all. Like she was saying earlier, she makes everyone gynesexual. She’s just charming like that.


	4. in which people are drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘I met you last night when you were drunkenly patting my dog in my backyard at 3 in the morning and when I asked you what the hell you were doing you slurred something about dogs being great and then you threw up on my feet and then fifteen minutes later you were passed out on my couch so that’s why you’re here right now also what the fuck is your name and why were you patting a dog in a stranger’s backyard in the middle of the night’ AU
> 
> TW: references to self-harm, death, depression.

Iidabashi Kiyoko has a secret.

Kiyoko hates keeping secrets. If she hadn’t made certain promises to her father, she would have come clean a long time ago. But alas, she has been an upstanding citizen all her life, and that’s not about to change now.

It’s late, around 03:00. Kiyoko had spent the previous day at a trade fair with her father, and the youngsters of the industry had invited her out for drinks afterwards. Kiyoko doesn’t drink, but her father had encouraged her to go along anyway, so she had. It had been fun. Naturally, most of their interest came from what she represents to the industry, but she thinks maybe one of them is _genuinely_ interested in getting to know her.

The thought makes her giddy. She’s never had a significant other before, and she’s more than ready to give it a try. They’d exchanged numbers, but she hasn’t received a text yet. Maybe later in the day? Or should she make the first move? At times like this, she misses her mother the most. Her father might be an expert in robotics, but when it comes to humans, he’s clueless.

But no matter. She has her trusty international fashion magazine: Cosmopolitan! She can’t think of a single question it hasn’t answered. Once she’s back in her apartment, she can-

Kiyoko is on Semester Street, about to turn into the underground car park, but something has caught her attention - or rather, some _one_. Opposite her building, Harmony Heights, is a beautiful chalet bungalow, belonging to a middle-aged couple with the most adorable Furfrou. Said Furfrou has its front paws on the wall separating the garden from the pavement, and standing on this pavement, petting the poodle Pokémon, is… a child? At 3AM?

Kiyoko’s mind is made up. After parking her car, she strides purposefully across the road. She’s made sure to leave all her valuable belongings in the car just in case. Kids these days are terrifying creatures.

Upon noticing her, Furfrou barks. The child turns around and… oh. She’s a person of short stature. That answers a few of her questions.

The woman is, much to Kiyoko’s dismay, very drunk. How many enebriates does she have to deal with in one night, for crying out loud? She just wants to head home, curl up beside her Aron, and check on her Sims. Before she’d left, Yagami Raito was trying to break up Eren Yeager and Sakura Chiyo. He’s probably killed Sakura by now. Typical Yagami. He can be such a yandere sometimes.

Kiyoko gives the woman a nervous wave. “Hello. Are you okay?”

The woman grins and gives her a thumbs-up. She’s swaying so much that Kiyoko fears she’ll fall over the wall into the garden. “Canine Pokémon…” the woman slurs. “Canines are… so great… because they don’t… stab you _right in the heart!_... That’s why I don’t… associate with people… with thumbs-” And she throws up all over Kiyoko’s boots.

Wonderful.

Kiyoko sighs. “I’m going to take that as a ‘no’. My name is Iidabashi Kiyoko. If you’d like, I can contact your friends or relatives on your behalf.”

The woman roars with laughter, and the force of it is enough to send her stumbling into the wall. “If I’d like? _If I’d like?_ ” Furfrou decides he’s seen enough shit for one night and bounds off to sniff the lavender. “Oh, I’d _like_ , alright... But you can’t!”

Kiyoko takes a deep breath to calm herself. “May I ask why?”

“Because…” The brick wall scrapes against the woman’s leather jacket as she sinks to the ground. “Because they’re fucking _dead_ , aren’t they? Every single one… gone… without a single word.” Her voice cracks, and Kiyoko finally identifies her harsh accent as typical of the Orre region.

Kiyoko’s eyes widen. “So you have nowhere to go?”

“I…” The woman rubs her eyes aggressively. She’s crying. “I have a place… but it’s so… it’s so empty… and cold… It’s so _cold_ …”

The woman looks so pitiful that Kiyoko can’t bear it. Stepping around the vomit, she seats herself on the wall, close enough to lay a gloved hand on the woman’s shoulder. “If you have nowhere else to go, come with me. We can talk about everything else in the morning.”

The woman hiccups. “I’m so... sick of talking. They want me to… to talk, and write, and draw, but when I do the… the paper ends up ripping and… and my skin ends up ripping and my… brain bursts out of my skull and it’s so… so heavy I get crushed… under its weight...” As she talks, she leans to the side, probably without realising, and her cheek comes to rest against Kiyoko’s leg.

The woman looks up. Her eyes are wide with horror. “Your leg…”

Kiyoko chuckles. “And the other one, too.”

The first time Iidabashi Kiyoko had made the news, it had been in an article about the tragedy that had killed her mother. Her mother, after all, was the wife of founder of Iidabashi Industries - a pioneer in the field of robotics. It was funny, in a twisted way, that Professor Iidabashi had lost his second love to his first. Maybe the machines had gotten jealous, claimed the dark side of the internet. Maybe the machines wanted all of his time and attention, and they can't be pleased that his child had survived the tragedy.

No one had known about her existence until the tragedy, and once they found out, she had become the punchline of the joke. Poor little Iidabashi Kiyoko, doomed to be a cyborg from the moment her father had found out she was born deaf. The prominent hearing aids aren't enough to consider her one? How incredibly convenient it is that the tragedy ended with trans-femoral amputation of both of Kiyoko's legs, giving Professor Iidabashi the perfect excuse to develop some fancy biomechatronic limbs. How long the daughter of Professor Iidabashi will remain human, the internet says, is anyone's guess.

“I’m sorry…” The woman is crying again. “Why am I burdening... others with my problems?... My problems don’t matter… I don’t...”

Kiyoko shakes her head. The woman’s beanie is about to fall off, so Kiyoko adjusts it for her. Her hair is red, and just long enough to spill out of her hat.

“If it hurts you,” Kiyoko says. “That means it matters. You deserve to exist as much as anyone else on this planet. You have a soul… and a soul is a beautiful, unique thing. Don’t burden your soul with the problems of this world. Let it soar free.”

The woman frowns at her. Her eyelids seem heavy. “Does that make… any sense to you?”

“Uh.” Kiyoko chuckles nervously. “Come with me. I have a lovely couch that wouldn’t mind being burdened.”

The woman lets out a snort of laughter. She’s not in a position to argue back, and fifteen minutes later, she’s passed out in Kiyoko’s flat.

Kiyoko cleans herself up first. Luckily, she’d been wearing boots, so a quick spin in the washing machine later in the day would sort them out. Her legs, on the other hand, would have had a tough time fitting into the drum.

Once she’s in pyjamas, she heads back to the living room. The woman had never revealed her name, but she’s sleeping peacefully now. Kiyoko leaves some hangover cures on the table beside her. It’ll be interesting to see what this woman is like when sober.


	5. in which most people are asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "you sleepwalk a lot and sometimes you knock on my door so I have to lead you back to your apartment" AU

From the very beginning, humanity grows. Before they have a heart or mind or soul of their own, humans are growing, growing, until they are too much for their mother to sustain without harming herself. When they learn to stand, they are amazed by far away the ground is. They look up at the giants around them, reach out, and exclaim that they can’t wait to be as tall as the people they love.

So they keep growing. Eventually, when they realise that the sky is no closer than it previously was, they find other ways to rise higher. Stilts, stairs, heels and towers, closer and closer but never close enough, hot air balloons and planes and rockets, rising higher and higher, closer and closer and too close to the sun, too close, too far, too hot, and then…

Nothing.

Growth makes humanity so beautiful. But it also makes humanity so, so, ugly.

So much has been lost from the world that used to be. In their time here, the Earth has changed beyond recognition. Their heart aches for a home that no longer exists.

_ Knock knock knock. _

Akamatsu Kaede jerks awake, lifting his head off the desk to scan the room with bleary eyes. He’d fallen asleep marking books again. What time is it? Maybe 2AM? 

_ Knock knock knock. _

Ah. It’s all coming back to him now. Kaede stretches as he crosses the room to unlock the door. Waiting for him is Iruma Miyato, his blue eyes glazed over and staring at Kaede as if he doesn’t exist. 

Kaede lets out a quiet laugh. “Oh, Iruma-kun, why are you like this?”

Iruma frowns, seemingly in thought. “If ya ask me, solving this case is easier than making a virgin cum in his pants.”

Kaede sighs. “Seriously, why are you like this?”

“Huh? You and me?” Iruma grins. “Hah, that’s a good one. That’s almost as funny as your tiny blueberry pancake nipples.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Kaede looks down at his bare chest. He knows Iruma can’t see him, but still… 

He reminds himself that tiny blueberry pancake nipples wouldn’t stop Iruma from getting into someone’s bed and feels… well, actually, a lot worse. Iruma’s standards are so low you wouldn’t even find the bar in the Marianas Trench. 

But still, his nipples are perfectly normal. He doesn’t know why he’s letting Iruma’s nonsense get to him. Clearly, it’s too late at night.

His Cleffa is still asleep on the couch. Kaede steps around Iruma, who’s just standing there being as unhelpful as ever, and closes the door. Taking Iruma’s arm, he leads the sleeping man towards the elevator. 

“Okay, Iruma-kun, I’m gonna take you back to your apartment, alright? If you somehow wake up Gou-san’s pets, you might unleash hell. Seriously, have you seen her angry?” He lets out a low whistle. “She puts Hulk to shame.”

“You got quite a pair of ladyballs to start sluttin’ it up when my life is on the line.”

“...Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”

“A guy like you can only dream of landin’ a big-boobed hottie like me. Go on, get yourself a good eyefull.”

“Iruma-kun, your chest is as flat as an ironing board. What kind of alternate universe has your brain run away to?”

“Everyone knows that only pervs wear hats.”

Kaede snorts. “Then where’s your hat, idiot?”

Iruma falls silent. Thank heavens.

The journey to the sixteenth floor is an uneventful one. Iruma just wanders around the elevator and occasionally places his face against the mirror. When they reach their destination, Kaede gently forces him out and leads him back to his own apartment.

Iruma shares an apartment with a childhood friend, and as usual, the place is a mess. The living room light is switched on, and so is the laptop. A half-empty cup of coffee stills waits on the table, pushed to the corner to make room for numerous diagrams. Dishes are piling up in the sink, and the whiteboard on the fridge bears only frustrated scribbles. On the floor beside the couch lies an empty bottle of vodka, and of course, the whole place stinks of pot. Here, one can observe Iruma Miyato in his natural habitat.

Iruma is heading towards the one couch in the apartment, already occupied by a comatose Oowada Mona, so Kaede steers him in the other direction. In stark contrast to the living room, the bedroom looks like something out of an IKEA catalogue. Maybe that’s why Iruma dislikes his bed so much. His soul sleeps in the living room, so why wouldn’t he?

Still, Iruma doesn’t try to return to the living room. He climbs atop one of the beds himself, even in his sleep careful not to disturb the dozing Jolteon and Manectric, and simply stares up at the ceiling for a long time.

“Iruma-kun,” Kaede calls softly. “Go to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”

“If you startle me into losing motivation, that loss will be felt across the whole world.”

Kaede pauses. Huh. That had nothing to do with sex. Unless he’s talking about designing new sex toys, and knowing Iruma, he probably is.

“Goodnight, Iruma-kun.”

“Shitty monochrome bear.”


	6. in which people can't mind their own business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “okay I get that there are no seats left in this cafe but like I am trying to read here no you cannot have this chair my feet are using it thank you very much please get out of my face now” AU

In Castelia City's business district, beside a train station, there is a cafe. From the cherry-red awnings surrounding the shop front hang baskets overflowing with vibrant flowers, carefully placed to overlook each of the booth lining the cafe's windows. The air is rich with the sweet scents of chocolate and coffee, and the laughter and lively chatter and the cheerful smiles of the barista feel like returning home.

The counter dominates the scene, taking up most of what appears to be the back of the shop, but between the outer wall and the counter is a path, wide enough for comfortably pass through. The wide counter hides a more intimate part of this cafe, with warmer lighting and tables for two or three.

On the other side of this room is a staircase, spiralling down into a cosy basement. There is music here, acoustic guitar and crooning vocals, almost too faint to be discernible. Even the conversations are hushed, the peaceful atmosphere too fragile to be disturbed. Alongside the tables, there are couches and, in the alcoves, bench seats in the cafe's signature colour.

It is in one of these alcoves that Yumeno Haruki sits, warm and safe and concealed from the world. On the table are a packet of _daifuku_ mochi and a cup of ginger tea, cooling slowly beside an open book. His feet are propped up on the seat opposite, and an oversized scarf is wrapped like a blanket around his angular frame.

It’s not cold, but Haruki likes to have something on his shoulders. His mind is an overwhelming place, an endless maze that leads to thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams that are not his own, sounds that are too loud, colours that are too bright, smells that are too strong, and it terrifies him. But with a scarf around his shoulders, he feels grounded. It reminds him that he exists outside his mind, and its soft embrace gives Haruki the strength to face the real world. Haruki doesn’t know which world scares him more.

Haruki is partway through the book when he sees himself through another’s eyes. It’s Haruki himself, no doubt about it. The slack face and hunched shoulders look the same as they do in the mirror. It’s just a patron looking for an empty seat, so Haruki pays them no mind.

That is, until they slide into the bench opposite, dropping their bag on the other side of his legs. They’re close enough now that Haruki can _feel_ the other person. Most of their aura is also black, with dark greens and blues and purples streaking across the surface. Their core burns dark red, fading into shades of orange and gold and yellow before finally being engulfed by the darkness.

Haruki wonders where his own fire has disappeared to. He hasn’t seen it in a long time.

“Looks like you have to be my date today! Nishishi~”

This woman laughs like a horse. Or is she a girl? Haruki himself is short compared even to petite women, but the person before him is shorter yet. But he knows all too well what it’s like to shop in the teens’ section at the age of 21, so he’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

The woman pouts at him. She speaks with a nasal accent - Kanto, Haruki guesses. “What’s with that blank face? Am I not your type?”

She has a cute face, with round purple eyes and a coy smile. Her purple locks tumble down past the edge of the table, and she’s wearing a white jacket with a checkered scarf. Haruki thinks for a bit.

“Nyeh.”

Her eyes well up with tears before he can even blink. “WAAAH! You’re so cruel!”

The other patrons are shooting them disapproving looks. Why are they looking at him when he hasn’t even done anything? They must think this woman has something to do with him. Ugh.

“That’s right. I _am_ cruel.” Haruki returns to his book with a quiet sigh. “Go and find yourself another date.”

The woman hums as she considers this. “Nope.”

She’s grinning and he knows it. How is it even possible to shift moods that fast? Haruki can only go through five emotions at a time before needing a nap.

“You look like you need company,” the woman says cheerily. “So how about I make you an offer? You treat this pretty girl to a grape bubble tea, and she’ll treat you to the most delightful date you could ever have.” Her smile is dazzling. “So? How about it?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Tutting, the woman shakes her head. “You’re really no fun, you know that?”

“I know.”

The woman exhales until her lungs have nothing left to give. “You’re really just gonna make me do all the work, huh? Is this how you are in bed too?”

“Yes.”

The woman blinks. “Damn. You really don’t care.”

There’s no need to respond to that.

“Okay then.” She stands, but her bag is still beside his feet. “I’ll be back in a minute. Save my seat, okay, cutie?” She flounces off with a wink, humming to herself as she takes the stairs two at a time.

Haruki takes a moment to look around the basement. This is the quietest part of the café, mostly because carrying a full glass on a tray down the deathtrap they call stairs is a perilous affair. Yet even this part of the café is full. Like him, they must all have been lured out by the warm weather. This woman just wants a place to sit.

If she’d wanted the seat, she should have just asked. She is _not_ in his good books right now.

Haruki returns his attention to the book. It’s Harry Potter, because the kids in his ward had been watching the second movie during his last shift. When Haruki was younger, he’d called himself a mage. With his… unique skillset, it was the only dream worth having. His abilities had scared him, but when he used it to bring joy to others, he’d felt, for a fleeting moment, that he hadn’t been cursed. That he had been gifted.

It’s not a gift.

The audience that had loved his shows the most were the people in the beds around him. Their eyes would light up as they clapped for him, and they forgot, briefly, how much it hurt.

That faded soon enough. He remembers lying on that bed, with sheets too thin to stay in place as he shifted, the incessant beeping of the machines, the faint sobs of his homesick friends. He remembers their pain, their anger, their desperation, weighing him down like his skin were encrusted with boulders. It hurt so much he couldn’t tell where his own pain ended and everyone else’s began.

As the lights in the eyes of his audience grew dimmer and dimmer, the lights of their aura grew brighter and brighter, the colours writhing and churning until there was nothing but red, red, red until red became white.

White. The colour of purity. The colour of pure agony. One by one, these white souls were taken away. To somewhere more comfortable, his mother had said. For that moment when the lights go out.

He saw the moments when their lights went out. They never were comfortable.

Haruki’s mother took him back home. His hair returned slowly, and he grew it down to his shoulders for his friends that couldn’t. Any longer and you’ll have more hair than fat, his mother had laughed. So all the hair that grew past his shoulders, he gave to his friends, to strangers, to anyone who needed it.

Once he’d graduated, he’d returned to that ward. Everyone there seemed familiar, though most of them he’d never even met. It was agony, and it still is. The ward hurts him so much that there is no room for his own emotions anymore. When he steps out through the main door, he can finally breathe. Breathing is all he can do these days.

Haruki suddenly remembers his tea. It’s cold. He downs it in one gulp and shudders in disgust.

The bag is still there, but the woman herself is nowhere to be seen. Haruki splays out his legs, taking up as much room as he can, and returns to his book-

Or not. There are two familiar woman upstairs. One has green hair styled messily into two braids, and the other wears a hat pulled down low enough that a tilt of her head could easily mask her face. Both are holding takeaway cups, and look as exasperated with the woman as Haruki feels. The black-haired one, he recognises as another tenant in his building. But the one with green hair… where does he know her from?

Blinking away the vision, he returns to his book. He wants to finish it before heading home so he can watch The Apprentice in peace. As for dinner… pizza? Waffles with Nutella and cookies? Both? Both.

The woman’s boots clack against the stairs on her way down. Haruki sighs through nose, because opening his mouth is effort.

“Hey, cutie~” Brushing his feet aside, she sits back down on the bench, and places a half-empty glass of grape bubble tea on the table. “Sorry I took so long, but I bumped into some good friends of mine! They positively _begged_ me to stay and chat, but I told them I’ve been reserved by a handsome redhead in the basement.”

Haruki gives her a deadpan look. “You’re here for your bag and nothing else. In case you haven’t noticed, your seat is occupied by my feet. Please get out of my face so I can read in peace.”

The woman stares at him for a long moment.

“So you’re a tsundere type, eh?” She hides a giggle behind her hand. “Don’t you worry, because I’ll break the _real_ you out of there! Nishishishi~”

He doesn’t bid her goodbye. He doesn’t see her leave. And now that his tea is gone, he doesn’t bother to stay.


	7. in which there is a lot of rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "who wears the designer raincoat/umbrella set and who is wearing oversized polkadot rainboots and a huge yellow duck raincoat"

_Beep beep. Beep beep._

It’s a new day. Leaning over the headboard, Angelo draws aside the curtains, flings open the window, and calls out to the world, “GOOD MORNING, EVERYONE~ LET’S DO OUR BEST TODAY!”

There is a curse from the window above. “For fuck’s sake, Yonaga. Some of us work night shifts.”

Angelo laughs. His neighbour is always grumpy. “GOOD NIGHT, RYOKO! SWEET DREAMS~”

Ryoko curses once again and slams her window shut. All that noise is enough to set off someone's baby, and the oba-chan downstairs starts screaming about inconsiderate neighbours. Typical oba-chan. She needs some more cheer in her life.

 _When I wake up, well, I know_ _I'm gonna be_ _,_

_I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next you_

Today’s breakfast: fried egg Milanese.

Angelo pats his full stomach in satisfaction. The drizzle of chilli sauce looks beautiful on the fried egg, and makes even the watercress exciting. His post on Instagram is collecting likes at the usual speed, and he sends off some quick replies to his loyal fans.

Sitting beside Angelo is his Smeargle, purring happily as he munches on his Poffins. Angelo snaps a quick selfie with her, and after admiring it for a few moments, sets the picture as his background.

What does he feel like having for lunch - and dinner, for that matter? Quiche, roulade, paneer, linguine, tabbouleh _,_ halloumi _,_ cacio e pepe _,_ huevos rancheros, cheese and onion rolls, roasted stuffed cauliflower?

And since no meal is complete without dessert, what would he choose? Pudding, posset, ice cream, muffins, shortbread, cranachan, sponge cake, chocolate marquise, syllabub, tiramisu?

Options, options, options. So many options. Life is wonderful this way.

 _I'm_ _walking on sunshine_ _(Wow!)_

_And don't it feel good_

Inspiration is like a flower. It’s no good buying freshly-cut flowers at the store, because those flowers have no root, no way to grow. Those flowers, severed from the ground, are no longer protected by God. Those flowers wither away, and as you throw them out, you wonder why you bothered to buy them in the first place.

A much better idea is to tend to a plant yourself; watch it grow and flourish and blossom in your own hands. A plant has roots, and with love and care and the blessings of God, it becomes something that makes your heart glow with pride.

In a similar way, inspiration plucked too early, merely snatched out of thin air, is no good. It’s no good having an epiphany the world is not yet ready for. Pay attention to the world around you. Watch it as carefully as you may tend to a child, and God will show you where you could make a difference. That is your allotment, where you plant seeds and give them what they need.

Like plants, inspiration may die, but it might also thrive. It might just be a herb, useful but not appreciated enough. Or it might be a tree, growing taller than you, taller than the trees around you, its roots extending into surrounding plots, drawing the eyes of the world and becoming such an important part of the ground that everything moves around it.

Either way, your plant is beautiful, and it’s there because of _you_. In life, is there anything more satisfying than that?

_Wake me up before you go-go_

_Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo_

It’s raining when Angelo leaves the store, but he’d anticipated that. His groceries are in a waterproof backpack, and he’s wearing his favourite Psyduck raincoat. Its beak is wide enough to keep his entire face dry, so the only way he could possibly get wet is by jumping right into a puddle. So that’s exactly what he does, but even then, his polka-dot rain boots keep him dry.

Angelo pouts. He’d prepared so much that he’s taken the fun out of his own life.

_Don't stop me now_

_If you wanna have a good time, just give me a call_

The rain is getting heavier now. There’s so much of it that he can only see a few feet in any direction. He’s been splashed by more than a few cars.

Angelo doesn’t mind. God had blessed them with a warm summer, but blessings in abundance are a curse in themselves. Humans may complain about their wet clothes, and their ruined plans, but humans have a tendency to complain about everything. God understands human nature, knows that humans will never fully fathom how much their survival depends on these so-called disasters.

Angelo tilts his head to gaze at the sky, blinking at each fat droplet that falls into his eye. His hood has fallen back, his hair is already clinging to his scalp, and Angelo feels a trail of liquid trickle down his neck. It’s impossible to notice in the rain, but nature is weeping with sorrow and gratitude to God. Angelo takes a moment to do the same.

 _Hey now, you're an_ _all-star_ _, get your game on, go play_

_Hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid_

Stepping into the empty lift, Angelo takes a moment to watch himself in the mirror. He is quite a sight. His snowy hair now plastered to his face, and there’s someone waving at him to hold the lift.

Angelo presses down on the button, and a few moments later he is joined by another man. His raincoat is fancy, and it matches the sodden umbrella which clearly didn’t do a good job of keeping his glasses dry.

The man takes off his glasses with a sigh. “Thanks. Floor fourteen, please.”

“No problem~” replies Angelo as he presses two buttons. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

The man glances at him from the corner of his eye. “That didn’t sound like sarcasm.”

“Nyahahaha~ That’s because it’s not. I find the sound of heavy rain quite soothing, and I love the scent of the first rain after long dry period. There’s a word for it, isn’t there? Hmm, I can’t remember…”

“Petrichor,” the man offers. Such a melodious accent! The man hails from Sinnoh, Angelo thinks. “Every Doctor Who fan knows that word.”

“Oh, you’re one of those. A super room clock, is it?”

The man blinks. “Sorry?”

“Those people that cosplay.”

“Oh!” The man looks at him in surprise. “You mean SuperWhoLock. You’ve got the general gist of it, but it’s not quite right. Cosplayers dress up as any fictional character from films, books, videogames… anyone, really, that you feel passionate about. It’s a way of expressing your love for the work, its characters, and the people that put in so much hard work to create this for you. As for the term ‘SuperWhoLock’, it refers to three separate TV shows: CW’s Supernatural, and BBC’s Sherlock and Doctor Who. Fans of one show tend to end up watching the other two as well, and there used to be a massive online community supporting all three shows. Unfortunately, Supernatural and Doctor Who just aren’t as good as they used to be anymore, and I don’t expect the next season of Sherlock to come out for another ten years. But still, all three shows hold fond memories for me, so I can’t quite let them go _just_ because of their deteriorating quality, and there’s plenty of other…”

The man trails off, his eyes widening. “Oh, my. Are you really still listening?”

Angelo laughs. “Of course! It’s not every day that you meet an adult with so much passion. We humans have a way of destroying our own happiness, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” The man has a strange look in his eyes. “I agree with that. Fictional characters… they exist for a purpose. They make a difference in their world. They matter. But humans… we’re really just here by accident, aren’t we?”

Angelo cocks his head. “Now what makes you say that?”

The man shrugs. “You know...”

The doors open on the ninth floor. Angelo steps outside before turning around, keeping both feet firmly planted in the doorway. “What are your plans for the rest of today?”

The man appears taken aback. “Well… I’m working from home, but it’s nothing particularly important. Why do you ask?”

Angelo flashes him a grin. “Later, let’s have lunch together.”

_Every day discovering something brand new_

_I'm in love with the_ _shape of you_

The man’s name is Shirogane Takashi, and he falls in love with the quiche and eggnog that Angelo brings along.

“I’ve never had eggnog at this time of the year,” comments Takashi. They’re both sitting on the breakfast bar in his apartment, dressed in warm clothes and listening to Akeboshi’s _After The Rain Clouds Go_. Takashi’s Gardevoir is sat on the floor, trying her best to copy Smeargle’s painting of a flower. “This is rather exciting.”

“I personally don’t get why calendars are such a big deal,” Angelo replies. “Sure, they help us keep track of where we are in relation to the sun, but it’s not that big a deal, you know? God provides regardless of month. Our Earth revolving around the sun doesn’t mean our lives have to do the same.”

Takashi considers this. “True. So you're religious? Is there a particular path you follow?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Angelo says, swiveling around to face her companion. “The one I call God may well be one of many. No human was present at the beginning, after all. We can never comprehend the true nature of God. All we know is that their love is eternal, and they treasure their children dearly. It is the children that tore themselves away.”

Angelo looks over Takashi’s shoulder, at the droplets that trickle down the glass like tears. “That’s God crying. He misses us so, so much.”

“That’s… interesting,” Takashi murmurs.

Angelo grins. “Aren’t they? Do you wanna hear more?”

_Don't stop believin'_

_Hold on to the feelin'_


	8. in which soulmates are a curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "songs sung by your soulmate is stuck in your head" AU

Harukawa Masaki hates his soulmate with a passion.

Granted, Harukawa Masaki hates a lot of things including children, talking, and the fucking _sun_. But he has a reason for hating his soulmate in particular.

You see, in this world, there are people that have been blessed with soulmates - or at least, a _sign_ that they have one. These tend to be little things, like all your sneezes being simultaneous, or sharing dreams, or a tattoo of the first thought your soulmate has after seeing you. Things that don’t really bother you unless your soulmate gets hayfever, or they often have nightmares, or you get _daYUM SHE T H I C C_ tattooed on your forehead like the unfortunate IT technician at his workplace.

Honestly, that’s a terrible place to get a soulmate tattoo. Literally everyone thinks those exact words after they see her for the first time, and every other time too. Okay, so things could be a lot worse for Masaki. But his soulmate symbol isn’t anything like that.

Oh, no.

Masaki’s soulmate forces him to _burst into song_.

_I got a boy, a cool one_

_I got a boy, a kind one_

_I got a boy_

_Handsome boy who took all of my heart_

Case in point. Masaki is at the convenience store just trying to find his favourite brand of ramen, and his soulmate is apparently trying to deafen someone with their hollering. Years of trying to suppress the urge, and some training provided by his workplace - because in his field, this kinda needs to be classified as a minor ailment - have taught him how to control it... to some extent.

But for staying silent at work and keeping his voice down in public, there is a price to pay. The longer he resists, the stronger the urge. The song slowly drowns out his thoughts, floods his lungs, prepares his vocal chords for a concert at Crown City's Pokémon Baccer Stadium. Every movement becomes part of a choreography. Cameras flash. People cheer. Life is a stage, and Harukawa Masaki is the star.

At least, those are the kind of thoughts his soulmate thinks. Masaki shuts them out.

When they find out that the boy they got is none of those things they sing about, his soulmate is  _not_ going to be happy.

_Hey, you, guy with the pretty smile_

_You~ Ah~_

_You are a man that makes me go crazy_

_You steal looks with your body and face_

As Masaki drums his fingers against the steering wheel, he wonders what kind of person his soulmate is. He can’t exactly help it, what with them belting out obscure songs at all hours of the day with no consideration for him whatsoever and all.

Except, Masaki suddenly realises, there’s no way that his soulmate knows about him. Unlike his soulmate, Masaki doesn’t even hum. From a young age, he’d trained himself into silence, so there’s no way his soulmate would have found himself singing lyrics they don’t recognise.

His watch beeps. That’s his cue. Masaki starts the Audi and heads straight for the building’s entrance.

It’s only a few moments later that the top floors of the tower burst into flames. So far, so good. Ito informs him through the earpiece that Bond will come flying out a window in exactly one minute.

While Bond is a perfectly capable agent, realising that their current target had effectively Bond-proofed the entire building had triggered something in him. For whatever reason, Bond himself had decided to sacrifice a few bones just to have the last _fuck you_ , and there he is now, fucking up his landing. Oh, he can feel that pain from here.

Masaki sighs. They’d told him the ground is solid concrete, but he’d gone through it anyway. Either he wants to retire from the service on the grounds of physical or mental incapacity, or… Nah, that’s definitely it. He’s groaning in pain as he climbs into the back of the car. Bond will be going out a hero for this.

Speaking of fuck yous, Masaki wonders whether screaming _Fuck You_ by Lily Allen at his soulmate is worth it.

Nah. Seems like a lot of effort for something that hasn’t gotten him into trouble yet. His soulmate has inadvertently stopped him from cursing out his employers, rivals, and world leaders alike, and this is good training to keep it in top form. Really, his soulmate is doing him a favour.

_The trembling of my heart_

_My jumping moods_

_I can’t control it_

_Dumb dumb dumb dumb_

This fucking song is dumb dumb dumb dumb. Masaki supposes it must have come out recently, because he’s never heard (read: sung) it before, and now his soulmate is _singing it on loop_.

Masaki _hates_ his soulmate. He hates his soulmate so much. There’s so much passion burning within him that he is seriously considering belting out _Keep Awake_ by 100 Monkeys right here - literally _right_ here - during Snowbelle City's annual meetings of the World Economic Forum.

Ito is snickering in his ear. “Wow, Harukawa. I never thought of you as a fan of idol groups. Even after all these years, there’s still so much we have to learn about each other, huh?”

Masaki pockets his earpiece. Dealing with his unknown soulmate is one thing. Dealing with Ito when they meet at headquarters is a different matter entirely.

 _When I wear a_ _miniskirt_

_And walk on the street_

_Everyone looks at me_

_I’m wearing a miniskirt_

Masaki groans. He’s in the shower, it’s been a long day, and he just wants a _few fucking moments of peace and quiet is that too much to ask is it really._

As he washes his hair, he wonders what his soulmate even does with their life. Presumably female, but possibly be an androsexual male. Presumably in their twenties, but possibly a teenager. Presumably works from home or in a very casual environment, but possibly a member of an idol group.

Huh. Masaki considers this as he dries himself. If that is the case, then his soulmate’s constant singing may be due to practice, recording, and performances. It seems plausible. If they really are an idol, he feels a little bad for all the different ways he’s imagined killing them.

Just a little.

_Will you secretly come to me_

_And kiss me again?_

_You’re like my dream_

_You’re my_ _Mr. Chu_

Masaki cracks.

He had fought against the miniskirt song so valiantly.

Too valiantly, it turns out. He’d rather have sung the miniskirt song in his own shower, but he’d been too proud, and now he has to face the consequences.

Now he’s in Chabashira’s apartment, halfway through Deadpool and an extra large pizza, and even the fucking Growlithe has been stunned into silence. His Salazzle, by now too used to her master’s curse, just carries on snacking. Masaki tries to keep his voice as low as he can, but once he manages to force out the word _soulmate_ , Chabashira snorts and turns up the TV to full volume.

Eventually, his soulmate decides they’ve had enough of singing. Masaki needs several deep breaths before he can talk again. Once Chabashira realises that Masaki is done, he turns the volume back down before turning to Masaki, his grin as smooth as his Johto accent.

“So... the cool and mysterious Harukawa-san has a soulmate, huh?”

Masaki wishes Chabashira weren’t blind, just so he can see the full force of the glare that Masaki is sending his way. As it is, Chabashira just shivers.

Masaki sighs. “I hate it.”

Chabashira nudges Growlithe forward, and the little Pokémon settles herself down by Masaki’s side. Salazzle, still being edgy by herself on the windowsill, is still more interested in the film.

“But Harukawa-san…”

Masaki knows. He knows what’s coming. He doesn’t want to hear it.

Chabashira sighs. “I know the whole ‘being forced to burst into song at the worst moments’ thing must be pretty awful - especially for you, because you would literally never do that. But think about it. There’s someone out there who accepts you for exactly who you are. All your flaws, all your weird quirks… everything. You have a _soulmate_ , Harukawa-san. You have someone who could happily spend the rest of their live with you…”

Chabashira’s voice cracks. Masaki realises in horror that he’s _crying_.

“I wish I knew… I wish I knew that I’m not alone in this world. I know there’s people around me, people that love me, but… I’ve never actually seen any of you, you know? And I never will… What am I supposed to do if I’m the only witness to a crime? How could I provide a description to the authorities? What if… Oh…”

Chabashira wipes his eyes. “I ended up making this about me. I’m sorry. Hey, I know you hate this, so don’t glare at me for saying this but - I’m rooting for your soulmate.”

Masaki watches him carefully. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Chabashira laughs. “I hope your soulmate sings their way into your heart. I want to see you happy, Harukawa-san.”

“But you can’t see,” Masaki points out, and Chabashira hits him with a shoe. “And Chabashira? My given name is Masaki.”

Chabashira hides his smile with a slice of pizza. “I’ll take that secret to the grave.”

Masaki lets his head drop against the seat of the couch. Growlithe is nuzzling against his stomach, so Masaki runs a hand through his fur. He doesn’t stop himself from smiling.

_Boombayah_

_Yah yah yah boombayah_

_Yah yah yah boombayah_

_Yah yah yah yah_

Masaki sighs. This is even worse than the dumb dumb bullshit from Snowbelle City.

Across the table, the errand boy known as Healer quirks an eyebrow. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but the downward turn of his lips and the stiff shoulders tell Masaki everything he needs to know.

Masaki knows that Healer isn’t on the side of the law. Healer allies himself with anyone that sends him a paycheck, so he’d been understandably reluctant to meet an SIS employee until Ito had wired him a considerable sum. Masaki hadn’t been entirely sure he’d actually turn up today, but he’s arrived at the location that Ito had selected during their negotiations just in case.

Surprisingly enough, someone had gone through the trouble of setting up two chairs and a table in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. Masaki had taken the seat nearest to the entrance, made himself a cup of coffee, and waited for the minute hand to reach twelve.

At the end of the countdown, one of the ceiling panels were lifted away, and Healer casually dropped down into the other seat. Fond of dramatic entrances. A man after his own heart.

Masaki takes a sip of his coffee. “So you’re telling me… that the man we’ve been after this whole time… is actually your girlfriend’s stepfather?”

With a weary sigh, Healer nods. “Yes. Unfortunately, it worked out that way.”

Masaki holds back his snort by focusing on his soulmate’s voice. Dear God, how many yah yah yahs does this song _have_?

_My body, body_

_Touch my body_

_Baby, so good_

_This feels like paradise_

Masaki sighs. His soulmate had chosen the exact moment he’d climbed into bed to begin crooning into his ear.

He wonders if his soulmate knows what they’re singing about. Is there someone on their mind? Is there someone before them, enjoying a private show?

Masaki blinks. That escalated quickly.

He’s tired - that’s the problem. It was only this morning he’d returned from Nimbasa City after a fancy event at the Waldorf Astoria, and he’d gotten a little too into character while he was there. It just made him remember what sort of life he’s missing out on. That’s all.

Maybe he’s too tired to fight. Maybe he’s too lonely for pride. He doesn’t know why he gives in, but he presses his face into the pillow and murmurs along with his soulmate’s song.

_I’m with you tonight_

_The stars we are looking at together_

_I’m happier than anybody_

_Touch my body_


	9. in which drunk shenanigans happen off-screen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "last night was a haze for both of us and somehow we woke up hungover in a bed that isn’t either of ours and also neither of us recognize this apartment we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us" AU

The curtains are open, and the blinding sunlight makes Miyato groan in pain. God, his head is _killing_ him. Miyato rolls over, fully intent on sleeping off the hangover, and the next thing he knows, he’s running to the bathroom in a daze. He’s been this hungover so often that his body deals with these things on autopilot. That’s kinda sad, now that he thinks about it.

Once he’s done, Miyato stumbles over to the sink, splashing water on his face as he contemplates his life choices. He’d been on a downward spiral long before starting university, and it was only thanks to the talent he’d been born with that he managed to get scouted. His grades have been suffering a little, but his professors can’t deny his talent and passion, and he has enough contacts in the industry to get _somewhere_. Not enough to score a booth at this year’s Global Robot Expo, he thinks bitterly. Just his luck that managed to insult the asshole who allocates the booths. Ah, he’s insulting that turd again. And again. He really needs to work on that.

Miyato takes a good look at himself in the mirror. He then takes a good look at his surroundings in the mirror. He then screams.

This isn’t his bathroom. This is the bathroom of a medieval gothic castle.

Miyato turns around, clutching the side of the skin with trembling hands. Why is the sink made of stone? Who uses a tub that looks like a cauldron? When would anyone have time to light all these lanterns held by wrought-iron dragons? Where do you even find a tapestry of two women having sex with literally everything on display? What the _fuck_ is up with the skeleton-shaped toilet roll holder?

Miyato has many, many more questions, but he’s too mentally scarred to think. After putting on his boxers that just happen to be in the tub, he opens the bathroom door just a crack, peering out with bated breath.

The layout of the apartment is certainly similar to his own. Across from him is the bedroom, separated from the living area with a single wall for privacy. To his right is the entrance to a balcony. Since the curtains are wide open and it’s apparently the middle of the fucking day, Miyato guesses he’s on the east side of Harmony Heights, a few floors above Bakamatsu’s apartment. Who knew one of his neighbours is this kind of whackjob?

Speaking of whackjob neighbours… How the hell did this one get him into their flat? Miyato has one rule, and that’s not to stick his dick in crazy, because one Iruma Miyato is bad enough, thank you very much. Good job, Miyato. Good fucking job.

Maybe he should just get himself a custom sex doll. Hell, she doesn’t even need to be custom. He knows that SiliconWives has some real beauties, like Lana and Irina and Isabella and Kendra and Dolores… Oh, God. Dolores has attitude. She’s just his type. He’s definitely going to bring her home as soon as he gets back.

He should get back as soon as possible. Unfortunately, his neighbour decides to throw a wrench into his plans by waking up and screaming even louder than he had.

Except… this can’t be the neighbour. He knows this woman. It’s Bakamatsu’s ex-girlfriend.

Oh, God. He fucked his best friend’s ex.

Shyhara can’t look at him for more than a second. She’s sitting up in the bed, the sheets wrapped tightly around her body as she searches the room for her clothes. Miyato thinks it’s her skirt that’s lying by the main entrance. Lying on the floor of her balcony are… definitely her panties. Her bra is tied around the headboard, and Miyato thinks he knows exactly what it was used for.

Damn. Bakamatsu never told him what kind of shit they got up to in bed. So this is why he’d been so awkward about it. Damn.

Shyhara looks like she might pass out in a minute, so Miyato leaves her to pass out in peace. He still needs to find his own clothes. Ah, his jeans are on the couch. But where’s his shirt? He’s not sure if he’s ready to face Shyhara again, but he supposes it has to be done at some point.

It turns out the cloth he’d mistaken for a bathroom mat is actually his shirt. In his defence, he’d been more focused on Shyhara at the time. Shyhara herself is fully dressed now, having slipped out of the bedroom half a minute ago, and is putting on a pair of heeled boots. They’d definitely met at the bar then, and Shyhara had turned up with the full intention of getting laid. Naturally, they would have struck up conversation for old times’ sake, but how did it escalate this much? Yes, he’s always known that Shyhara is beautiful, in that delicate way that he appreciates but isn’t exactly into, and he himself most definitely isn’t Shyhara’s type.

It doesn’t matter. He turns to Shyhara with a boisterous laugh. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Shyhara Sorry. How much did you spend on redecorating?”

Shyhara looks up, now too confused for usual awkwardness. “Wait, this isn’t your apartment?”

Miyato makes a face. “Hell no. I’m an engineer. You think I live in a den from the dark ages?”

Getting to her feet, Shyhara cranes her neck to check the view through the balcony. “But we’re facing the east. I’m on the west side.” She looks terrified. “Who in our building lives like this?”

Miyato shrugs. He slips on his sneakers before heading to the door, then turns back to face her. “This whole thing never happened.”

Shyhara’s laugh is a huff of disbelief. Dear God, there are hickeys all over her shoulders. “That goes without saying.”

Miyato opens the door. The coast is clear. The lift is on the floor below. He steps into the hall with a sigh of relief.

“Wait a second,” Shyhara says. She looks stunned. “That’s my apartment right there.”

“Wait, what?”

The door opposite is labelled 3B. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure Bakamatsu once mentioned this door when asking him to take some books upstairs. There’s no doubt about it now: 3B _definitely_ belongs to Shyhara Sorry.

Shyhara is eyeing the door to 3A with a mix of horror and nausea. “Since when did I have a neighbour?”

Miyato snorts. “You and your boyfriend didn’t know that the only other flat on your floor is occupied? What kind of detectives are you?”

Shyhara winces. “We’ve been living here for years and we have never once seen that door open, okay? Since it’s not up for sale, we assumed the landlady is retaining it for her own use. Also, Kirigiri-kun and I are not in a relationship. We just live together for convenience.”

Miyato whistles. “Damn. And here I thought our landlady, at least, was somewhat normal.” He ignores that last part, obviously.

The lift dings. The doors slide open, and Miyato’s blood turns to ice. The first to step forward is the most terrifying being he has ever seen. There is almost nothing to her except skin and bones - maybe not even blood. But she must be alive, because a Liepard comes slinking along next, purring softly as she curls around her master’s leg.

Then a Noivern takes to air, and Miyato’s heart stops. He doesn’t dare move as he watches it circle the hall once, twice, before settling on the floor with a guttural screech.

The demon’s lips are painted with blood, and her yellow eyes gleam with amusement.

She lets out a soft laugh at the sight before her, and Miyato is surprised to see that her teeth appear perfectly normal. “I trust you enjoyed your evening.”

Miyato gapes at her. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

The demon’s eyebrows rise into her hairline. Beside him, Shyhara facepalms.

“You must be Iruma Miyato,” the demon says. Seriously, what is this woman? There's no way normal people speak with a strange blend of fifteen accents at once. “And this lovely young lady is my neighbour Saihara Shuri, am I correct?”

Shyhara responds with a jerky nod. Yeah, he’s just gonna leave this one to her. “May I ask your name?”

The demon gives a soft laugh. Beside her, Liepard flicks her tail. Is it a warning? A threat? A friendly greeting? Miyato doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to know. “Shinguji Kohime. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Shyhara says.

“Now if you’ll excuse me…” The demon gracefully makes her way forward. Miyato and Shyhara scuttle out of her way like their lives depend on it. She opens her door, then casts a smirk over her shoulder. “I believe I have some cleaning to do.”

The demon’s cackles echo through the hall long after she’s gone.

Miyato turns to Shyhara, who looks rather concerned for her wellbeing. “I still can’t believe you missed all of this.”

Now she looks so pitiful that Miyato actually feels bad. Great.

“Did…” She looks away. “Did Akamatsu-kun mention anything about her?”

“Nope,” he says. Which is strange, because Bakamatsu is usually the first to greet the new tenants. “You know what? You go and do your detective thing, and I’ll ask Bakamatsu what the hell just happened here. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this.”

Shyhara looks like she’d rather not, but she nods anyway. “Right. Let’s meet in the evening to exchange information.”

As agreed, they meet in the evening. She’s found out that the demon has been supposedly occupying the apartment for years, and Miyato is fairly sure that Bakamatsu is feigning ignorance to the demon’s true nature. They pour themselves a drink to forget this whole mess, and the next morning, they’re thankfully still in Shyhara’s bed.

He really needs to bring Dolores home before Bakamatsu murders him.


	10. in which hope cannot reign supreme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘I didn’t want to tell my friend who my real date last night was so I just pointed at a random stranger (you) but now they’re storming over to interrogate you and you’re playing along??? okay’ AU

Kiyoko enjoys visiting art supply shops. She’s ashamed to admit that she’s a terrible artist, but Yonaga Angelo - a fellow tenant in her building and an unlikely friend - doesn’t mind. His only condition is that he can paint her while she’s doing it, just because her expressions are apparently hilarious. She doesn’t like that, but when his eyes twinkle with delight, she can never quite hold it against him.

It’s a little windy today, so they’re both wrapped up warm. Yonaga has traded his usual beret for a flower crown, and the buttercups resemble a halo. Yonaga is… truly beautiful. In a cold, bleak world, he is a lamp, bringing light and warmth to all he meets. Kiyoko admires him for that.

He’s humming a merry tune as he strolls through the aisles, chattering away about something Kiyoko isn’t listening to. She’s just noticed the calligraphy section. Sure, she lacks both creative skill and expression, but she has steady hands. This might just be the one for her.

The first items to catch her eye as the little wooden boxes. According to the labels, each box contains twelve nibs and four colours of ink. It’s from a brand that Yonaga likes, but it’s much too advanced, much too pricey. Kiyoko moves along, keeping an eye out for the same brand, and finds something that’s supposedly perfect for beginners. Perfect.

“Oh, there you are,” Yonaga says, peering over her shoulder. “Calligraphy? I like it. If you can do this well, I’ll give you a shoutout on my Instagram.”

Kiyoko beams. “Really?”

He laughs. “Of course. Hey, check this out. It’s on offer~”

A pack of forty acrylic paints. “Why?”

He pouts. “I’m an artist. Do I need to justify what I buy in an art shop? And I told you already - I’ve been commissioned for a mural.”

She gives a nervous laugh. “Yeah, I wasn’t listening to any of that.”

“Wow. Just wow.” He shakes his head. “I still need some gesso. I need it as much as you need an SO. I didn’t mean for that to rhyme, yet I just did it again this time. Nyahaha~”

“Stop mocking me,” Kiyoko grumbles. “I can’t help who I am.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with who you are,” he remarks. “But I guess that’s the point of it all. You need to find someone who finds you perfect just like this. Cuz you’re amazing~  Just the way you are ~”

Kiyoko can’t hide her smile. In spite of all these idiosyncrasies, she loves him dearly - or maybe it’s  _ because  _ of them. It’s refreshing to be with someone with no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive. Yonaga is a precious cinnamon roll, and she will protect him at all costs.

“But hey, what happened with your date last night? You still haven’t told me anything.”

She takes it back. She’s ready to shove him into traffic.

“It was fun, but it wasn’t meant to be,” Kiyoko says, hoping he’ll leave it at that.

He doesn’t. Now that he’s remembered, there’s no escape. His questioning follows her through every single aisle and all the way to the checkout, and it looks like she’ll have to put up with this for the whole journey home. She needs a diversion, stat.

Grabbing Yonaga’s arm, she drags him towards the nearest aisle and gestures to the first human she sees. “There you go. That’s why I was so awkward about saying anything. Happy?”

Yonaga blinks. They’re in the spray paint aisle, of all places. “Huh. She’s cute. Why are you running away from her?”

“What? I’m not running-”

Kiyoko may not be running, but Yonaga certainly is. For a brief moment, she’s convinced that he’s going to tackle some poor child in public, but Yonaga just gives her a bear hug.

That’s it. Kiyoko’s done with this life. She’s just gonna go into hibernation until the end of the century.

Yonaga has just finished introducing himself. “Kiyoko hasn’t told me your name yet. Actually, she hasn’t told me anything at all. When you’re done, let’s all get some food together, okay?”

The girl laughs. “Sounds good to me.”

What the hell? Who goes along with Yonaga’s crazy ideas just like that? What is wrong with this kid?

The pair’s animated conversation continues all the way to the till, and now they’re coming back… towards her. She’s not prepared for this.

Yonaga hooks his arm around Kiyoko’s. “Why didn’t you tell me about Kokomi? She’s so cute!”

The girl - Kokomi - is definitely checking her out. Kiyoko prefers taller people herself, but she can’t deny that this girl is indeed cute. “Iidabashi-chan seemed a little shy when we met. Is she like that with you too?”

Okay. Wow. So they’re still playing along with this. Great. Wonderful. Perfect.

Yonaga laughs. “She did take a while to warm up to me, but now she’s nothing but trouble.”

“Really?” Kokomi’s lips quirk into a mischievous smile. “And here I thought she must be a total sweetheart.”

The best course of action is to stay silent for as long as possible. Kokomi is observant - frighteningly so. She uses Yonaga’s words like a trampoline, bouncing higher and higher and high-fiving all of his expectations one by one. Kiyoko just listens, committing to memory every little detail that Kokomi reveals about herself.

Over coffee, Kokomi spins a tale about her date with Kiyoko. Yonaga drinks it all in with relish. They exchange contact details, follow each other on social media, and Kiyoko almost joins in until she remembers she’s supposed to have all this information already.

Half an hour later, Yonaga’s phone pings. He blinks at the screen in surprise. “Welp. Looks like I’m needed. Chika, I’ll take your stuff back to mine.”

“Wait, why-?”

He winks. “Because I ship it. You guys have fun, okay? Nyahaha~”

And he’s gone. Disappeared along with her calligraphy kit. Not for the first time, she wonders how her life has ended up this way.

She turns to Kokomi with a sigh. “Hey, I’m really sorry you got dragged into this mess. Thanks for playing along. If there’s anything I can do to repay this favour, please let me know.”

Crossing her legs, Kokomi leans back into her seat. She regards Kiyoko with a lascivious smile. “How about a real date?”

“I…” Kiyoko ducks her head. “Well… Yes, I can do that.”

“Nishishi~ That’s perfect.” She leans forward, resting her forearm against the table as she holds out her left hand. “Oma Kokomi.”

Kiyoko takes her hand. Oma’s grip exerts less pressure than she expected. Is this not her dominant hand? “Iidabashi Kiyoko. I’m happy to meet you properly.”

Bringing Kiyoko’s gloved hand to her lips, Oma presses a soft kiss to the leather. “I’m happy to meet you at all.”

Kiyoko needs to look away for a good ten seconds. If Yonaga hadn’t dragged her out, she could still be at home, watching Mario teach Sonic how to use a treadmill or whatever it is her Sims are up to now. This development is much, much better.

It’s Saturday, so Kiyoko has no reason to be in the office. Oma is still a student, and since she works from home, they’re free to spend the entire day together. Oma is new to the area, so they spend the morning pretending to be tourists. At the art gallery, Kiyoko tries to recall all the random trivia that Yonaga spouts. Oma is awed by the city’s stately new library. For lunch they get drinks and snacks from the supermarket, and have a picnic at the cathedral’s sunlit gardens. Afterwards, they wander around the shopping centre, playing a relatively harmless game of truth or dare until they see the Build-A-Bewear Workshop. When they leave, Kiyoko is the proud owner of a Pachirisu plush, and in Oma’s backpack is an adorable Misdreavus.

Kiyoko is reluctant to part ways, but since moving out, it’s become tradition for her to spend a full 24 hours at home every weekend to recuperate. Since her mother passed away, her father only has his Metang and her mother’s Florges for company. She misses them, and she knows they’re looking forward to seeing her.

Oma pouts. “Aww, you have to leave right now? That’s a shame. Are you catching the train too? Let’s go to the station together.”

They talk more as they cross the city center. Oma has a lot of questions, particularly about Kiyoko’s job. Generally speaking, Kiyoko is disheartened when people get too curious about this, but in Oma’s case, she doesn’t mind. Oma doesn’t say anything about Kiyoko’s father, or her family situation, or even her own achievements. Oma just wants to know what her job entails and how she feels about it, and Kiyoko is only too happy to tell her.

She takes Oma’s hand as they cross the road. Oma tenses, but she doesn’t pull away. She just starts talking about her favourite café, which just so happens to be beside the station.

“Looks like your train isn’t leaving for another ten minutes,” Oma remarks. They’re both squinting at the departures board just inside the station. “Tell you what - why don’t you go on ahead to the platform? I’m just gonna nip to the shops real quick. Don’t wait up if I don’t get back in time, okay?”

Kiyoko watches her leave with a smile. Kiyoko doesn’t know if the feeling is romantic or platonic just yet, but she knows she wants to keep Oma in her life for a little while longer.

Her phone has received multiple texts from Yonaga over the course of the day. Kiyoko laughs as she types out a quick reply, followed by a selfie with her Pachirisu. She’ll ring him once she’s back home. 

Oma’s been gone for a few minutes now. Kiyoko begins strolling to her platform, admiring the meticulously arranged displays of the fashion shops in the station. Winter is coming, but she wonders if she should invest in a dress anyway. Kiyoko has never cared much for fashion, but Yonaga says her usual attire makes her seem rather prim. She quite likes pastels, so maybe that skater dress over there? No, she’ll just get embarrassed and only wear it for Yonaga’s portraits. Best not.

Kiyoko reflects on this as she makes her way down the stairs. Sure, she’s not too affected by the cold… but maybe instead of revealing more than she needs to, she should go for exciting prints instead. But with her ivory colouring, she needs to be careful. Resembling a porcelain doll is bad, of course, but definitely not as bad as resembling a porcelain  _ zombie  _ doll.

It’s then that Oma calls her name. She’s at the top of the stairs. The bouquet in her hands is bright, but her grin is brighter still.

Kiyoko is a little dazed as Oma makes her way down. A small part of her brain is already at work, sifting through her horticultural knowledge to assign names to the flowers. The focal flowers are the begonias, with hydrangeas and rhododendrons filling in the gaps. Accentuating the stars of the show are the salvias, fennel, and coriander, with chives and leather leaves bringing it all together. 

Oma comes to a halt on the step above her. Kiyoko dimly registers the complaints of the other travellers, because she’s kind of blocking off the foot of the stairs, but it doesn’t matter. Oma’s with her, and smile is still there. But her eyes are unreadable.

Did something change? Had Kiyoko messed up somehow? It’s at times like this that she needs the ability to telepathically communicate with Yonaga.

“These are for you,” Oma says, her voice so quiet Kiyoko barely hears her. “In exchange for a kiss.”

A kiss?

Kiyoko holds her Pachirisu close as she considers this. She’s never kissed anyone before. She’s read most of Cosmo’s articles on it, yes, and practiced on the back of her hand while watching cheesy rom-coms. She doesn’t know what to do, but she doesn’t mind letting Oma find that out.

Kiyoko gives a jerky nod. She closes her eyes, because apparently that’s an unwritten rule for this particular area of intimacy. She reaches out, cups Oma’s face with a gloved hand, and closes the gap.

Oma’s lips have been chewed to shreds, but her kisses are gentle. She explores Kiyoko’s mouth like they have all the time in the world, and it’s only when the train arrives that they separate.

Their foreheads are still pressed together. Oma’s eyes are still closed, and a soft smile plays upon her face. She brings a hand forward, fills the gap between the pair with the blue bouquet. Kiyoko takes it, places it into the crook of her elbow beside Pachirisu. She’s careful not to move away. She wants this moment to last forever.

Oma’s hand sweeps up Kiyoko’s neck, her fingers brushing against Kiyoko’s ear. They caress her cheek, sweeping down to her chin, and her thumb traces Kiyoko’s lips.

“You’re as pretty as a doll, Iidabashi Kiyoko-chan,” she murmurs.

Kiyoko wants to tell Oma that she knows that, that she hates being told that. It’s better to get these things out of the way early on, before the habit sticks, because humans are creatures of habit and the majority are too stubborn to break them. But Oma continues before she gets the chance.

“But I can’t help but wonder why…” Her fingers are weaving through Kiyoko’s hair, her movements slow and gentle. “You’re as cold as a doll too.”

As her lips twist into a wicked smirk, Kiyoko realises that everything has gone wrong.


	11. in which memories are more bitter than sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck I feel like I got hit by a car… Wait I did? And it was your car?” + 'I hit you with my car and was the only one to visit you in the hospital' AU
> 
> ...At least, that was the plan.

It must be morning, because there’s someone sitting on her stomach. Ryoko stretches, arching her back, and the giggling child falls onto the mattress with a soft thump.

“Tomoko,” she grumbles. “If you squish my tummy, I won’t be able to fit any food in there.”

The child is lying across her stomach now, her legs kicking out a nonsensical rhythm on the mattress. “I’ll squish it up for ya. Like mash’ potatoes, ‘cept you get mash’ everything!”

Ryoko laughs. “That’s a good idea. Go and wake up your brothers for me.”

“Okay!”

Her sister totters off, already hollering their brothers’ names at the top of her voice. They’re complaining about the noise as Ryoko leaves her room. As she freshens up, she debates between breakfast options.

They’re not exactly spoilt for choice. Fruit would be her ideal first choice, but they’re too expensive to even consider. There’s still some French fries from last week, and with mushy peas, they’d be healthy enough. She could make spaghetti hoops, but they’ve been living off those and instant noodles for a few weeks now. Not chicken paste, because she hasn’t bought bread yet. Baked beans, rice pudding, digestive biscuits? 

Then there’s the matter of Pokémon food… She hates having to resort to this, but people show more kindness to Pokémon than humans. They still have an unfinished packet of seeds, and her father’s Sandshrew had brought back some fillets. Not exactly the healthiest diet for Sandshrew and her mother’s Mothim, and now that siblings have adopted an injured Trapinch they found in the park, there are too many mouths to feed.

Once Trapinch was reasonably healed, she’d asked them to let it go. But the order was a halfhearted one, and she couldn’t bring herself to insist on it. She thinks of it now as another pair of eyes, keeping her siblings safe while she’s at work. Trapinch takes its job very seriously.

She settles on rice pudding for breakfast. She can only find three cans in the kitchen, but that’s fine. She can share hers with Tomoko. She’s heating up the saucepan when water begins steadily dripping from the ceiling. Ah. This is troublesome.

“Takuya! The pipes are leaking again!” she shouts. “Don’t take too long in the shower!”

Her brother yells back something she doesn’t quite catch, but she knows he won’t disobey her. By the time her two brothers arrive, already dressed in their school uniforms, breakfast is ready and Ryoko has just finished making coffee.

“Rice pudding?” Hibiki sticks out his tongue, his face scrunching up with disgust. “I hate rice pudding.”

Takuya swats him on the head. “Brat.” He takes his usual spot at the table, by now immune to Hibiki's petulant whines. “I put Tomoko-chan on the toilet. And the leak isn’t coming from the tub, so it must be the shower.”

Ryoko sighs. The tub would have been so much easier to seal up.

Sandshrew is chattering away to Trapinch as he trots in. Sandshrew has been in the family for many years now, and Ryoko’s father had trained him well before passing away. He’s good company, and Ryoko is fairly sure he can understand human speech. 

He’s getting old now. Getting medicine for the occasional ailment is relatively straightforward, but they can’t afford anything that could prolong his life. Ryoko knows that Sandshrew knows, and she hates that there’s nothing she can do to comfort him.

Tomoko is shouting her name now, so she heads back up to the bathroom. Tomoko, still swinging her legs on the toilet, shoots her a gappy grin. It takes her a moment to realise that a particularly large lump of poop isn’t the source of Tomoko's excitement.

“It’s a new friend!” Tomoko cheers, pointing at the Scatterbug on the window. “I want ‘im as my partner!”

Ryoko sighs. “Tomoko, we can’t keep every single Pokémon you find. They have families too.”

“Nuh-uh.” Tomoko shakes her head. “His family got blown away by the wind, so now we need to be his family. He told me that.”

Well… it’s a Scatterbug. As long as it doesn’t evolve anytime soon, she supposes they can spare some food for it. It can keep Mothim company as well, when her mother returns from work.

“Hoshi Ryoko,” says Tomoko, which is interesting, because she doesn’t normally pronounce Ryoko’s given name correctly. “She didn’t have her ID on her person, but…”

Wait.

“...the driver recognised…”

What’s happening?

“...address wasn’t the same one…”

Ah.

“...solved the case quickly enough…” 

That makes sense.

“...identified her as their former…” 

She remembers now.

“...didn’t update her medical records after…” 

How could she forget?

“...would have been a lot of problems…”

They’re all dead.


	12. in which strangers are kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck I feel like I got hit by a car… Wait I did? And it was your car?” + 'I hit you with my car and was the only one to visit you in the hospital' AU

The hospital is bustling with activity. When Kaoru turns away from the reception desk, he’s almost run over by a woman in a wheelchair. Ironically enough, hospitals may just be the most dangerous place in the world.

Kaoru hadn’t been sure of what to bring. He’d settled on some snacks, because who would refuse food? He’s not a bad cook, and the woman must be growing tired of the bland hospital food by now. He’d taken most health requirements and lifestyle choices into account, since he hadn’t been able to see her since she was admitted. She may still reject it. But he doesn’t dwell on it too much; there are others who would be happy to accept.

He checks the sign on the double doors against the paper in his hand. This must the right ward. He presses the intercom outside the door, and a moment later, it crackles to life.

“Ward 304.”

Kaoru clears his throat. “Good morning. I’m here to visit Hoshi Ryoko.”

“What’s your relation to the patient?”

“I’m her neighbour. She has no living next of kin.”

Silence. It appears someone hasn’t checked their patients’ records properly. “Of course,” the man says finally. “Could you provide your name and address for me?”

“Tojo Kaoru, 2B Harmony Heights.”

“That’s fine. I’ve unlocked the door for you.”

Kaoru thanks him before pushing open the door. The first thing he notices the smell of disinfectant and coffee. It is fairly early, he supposes. Handover would have finished maybe half an hour ago.

The nurse he’d spoken to is just rising from the desk. He gives Kaoru an easy smile before setting off, leading Kaoru further into the ward. “You must be a morning person,” he says as he glances over his shoulder. “You’re wide awake.”

Kaoru returns the smile. “My mornings tend to be rather busy. I have no choice but to be wide awake.”

“Neither do I, but my body doesn’t understand,” the man laughs. They’ve stopped by Block E, which contains four beds. One is empty, and the occupants of two others are deep in conversation. The final bed is hidden behind thick blue curtains.

“She likes her privacy, but she was awake earlier,” he says to Kaoru, before sticking his head through a gap in the curtains. “You have a visitor. Would you like to see him?”

“I have a visitor?” Her voice is thick with sleep.

“Your neighbour, Tojo Kaoru-san. Does that ring a bell?”

“...Ask him if he knows any of our other neighbours.”

There’s one character that most of the tenants have encountered at some point, and if he’s lucky, Hoshi might be one such tenant. “Akamatsu Kaede in 1A,” Kaoru says quickly. “Cheerful blond kid. Very friendly.”

Hoshi sighs. She sounds wide awake now. “Yeah, he’s legit. I’ll call if I change my mind.”

The nurse shoots Kaoru a thumbs-up before drawing back one of the curtains. Hoshi is sitting at the edge of the bed, a thin hospital blanket draped over her shoulders. There’s some dressing on her forehead, and her arm is in a cast. One of her legs is lightly wrapped in bandages.

“Close the curtain,” she says, once the nurse has left. She’s looking down at her lap. “It’s too bright.”

Kaoru complies with an apology, then takes a chair by the foot of the bed. He keeps his expression neutral when she finally looks up. She hasn’t been sleeping well for a while. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks first.

Hoshi chuckles. “Like I’ve been hit by a car - which, funnily enough, is actually what happened. Remind me how we know each other again.”

Kaoru steels himself. He has to admit to it sooner or later. “I was the driver that hit you.”

“...Seriously?” She does not look impressed.

Kaoru nods stiffly. “Thursday night, during the storm? I was distracted by some of my passengers.”

She appraises him. Once she’s sure he’s not lying, she chuckles quietly. “It’s not entirely your fault. My all-black wardrobe is also to blame.”

“Still…” Kaoru bows his head. “I’d like to apologise formally. I’ve caused you a lot of pain and inconvenience and I accept full responsibility for any consequences you may face. Your medical costs are already covered, and if there is anything more I can do, please let me know.”

“You’re going above and beyond as it is,” she says gruffly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But-”

“Fine, fine. I’ll get in touch if I need anything.”

Kaoru’s shoulders slump in relief. “That’s fine. I live in 2B, so whatever you need, just let me know. I’ll leave my number with the staff for now.”

Hoshi waves away the topic before gesturing to the bag on the floor. “What’s all this?”

Kaoru places the bag on his lap. “It’s food - just some flapjacks and such. Do you have any dietary requirements I should be aware of?”

Hoshi shakes her head slowly. “None. Really, you didn’t need to do this.”

Kaoru doesn’t try to argue. He’ll just leave it on the chair unless she insists he take it with him.

“Also,” she says suddenly. “You never told me how you know me.”

“Ah.” Kaoru gives her a small smile. “I mentioned Akamatsu-kun earlier. He knows a private investigator, and they somehow managed to find out your name and former address. It was easy enough to verify your identity with your roommate. You didn’t update your records after moving into your apartment, by the way.”

Hoshi nods as she takes this in. She looks a little overwhelmed. “Thank you for doing all this.”

Kaoru inclines his head in response. He doesn’t think he deserves her thanks. Any decent soul should do the same.

“Let’s try some of those flapjacks then,” Hoshi continues gruffly, but she can’t hide the small smile on her face. “I’m getting kinda hungry now.”


	13. in which the dead rise again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Who wouldn't be angry you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!"

There’s always music playing in 11A. After a few months of living alone, Fuyuko has grown sick of silence. Sometimes she contemplates throwing in the towel and asking Peko to move in with her, but then she remembers why they’re doing this in the first place.

That steels her resolve. Peko has spent his whole life by her side. He deserves some space now, even if he doesn’t realise it. He needs a chance to find himself, and try as she might, she can’t stop him from putting his duty first.

Still, she hates this arrangement. She stamps around the apartment, throws her pyjamas to the floor behind her, clangs spoons against bowls, boils water for no reason in particular. If it’s noisy enough, she can pretend she’s not alone. She doesn’t have to hear the voices in her head. It’s nice, she tells herself. She’s happy living this way.

But she hasn’t been happy in a long time.

Not that that matters. There’s no time for happiness in the Kuzuryuu clan, especially for the heir of the largest transnational organised crime syndicate in the world. She’s not exactly heir material, but it’s not like they have a choice now, is it? Kuzuryuu Fuyuko is the only child of the oyabun, and when the time comes, she will be ready.

The only time that’s coming right now, though, is the time for her first lecture of the day. She starts just before lunch today, which is a stupid time to start lectures, in her opinion. Still, it’s better than 09:00 AM lectures. Fuyuko is an early riser, but dealing with annoying little fucktards when they’re deprived of caffeine is her idea of hell. The only reason she hasn’t killed one of them is because she wants to graduate on time. Yes, she’s perfectly capable of pinning the blame on anyone of her choosing, but Peko would probably intervene and ruin everything.

Don’t misunderstand - Peko’s great. But he’s loyal to the oyabun, whom he reports to every weekend, and when he’s inevitably asked about which laws Fuyuko has recently broken, he’ll reveal everything without batting an eyelid.

Peko acts like a machine. She hates it.

As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. Most likely Peko, since she’d successfully scared off anyone that tried to approach her. But he’s supposed to be at the hospital with Tojo in 2B, bringing back Peko’s roommate who’d gotten run over the other day. Unless they were already back and Peko thought Hoshi needed some time alone? Makes sense. Peko’s always giving people time alone.

When she opens the door, it’s not Peko on the other side.

Fuyuko’s heart stops. The ringing in her ears is deafening. It seems the world has slowed down, because as she tries to reach out, her arm feels impossibly heavy.

The ghost blocks her punches with practiced ease. When he throws his head back in laughter, she aims for his neck. He whirls out of the way and throws arm around her shoulder.

He’s… solid. Real. Human.

Alive.

“What the fuck?” Fuyuko screams, shoving her fist straight into his gut.

To his credit, his only reaction is a mere grimace. “Was that really necessary?” he chokes out, but now he’s smirking again. “Why are you so surprised?”

Fuyuko takes a deep breath. She’s calm. She’s calm. She’s kicking him right in the balls.

His howl pierces the air. He doubles over in pain, and she lets him shuffle backwards into her apartment. She doesn’t need to deal with Oogami from across the hall popping up to investigate.

The man straightens finally, his lips pressed tightly together. “Woman, why are you so angry?”

Fuyuko growls. “Angry? Who wouldn’t be angry? You ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!”

With a sigh, her brother puts his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry I ate all your cereal, and I’m sorry I didn’t actually die. Are you happy now?”

Fuyuko goes in for another punch, but suddenly her arms are around him and she’s sobbing into his shirt. For fuck’s sake. She’s supposed to discipline him. What kind of yakuza heir just blubbers like a baby?

Natsume doesn’t seem to mind. He’s holding her just as tightly, his shoulders shaking as he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

He’s always been taller than her, but this is stupid. She feels like she’s half his height. Half his size too, with her puny arms and all. No one would suspect she can bench-press twice her weight, since she looks about twelve years old. The world has it out for Kuzuryuu Fuyuko.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Fuyuko mutters. She steps away, swiping away her tears to take a better look at him. His clothes are scruffy, a little torn, and there are flecks of dirt on his skin. His hair is crying out for some serious shampoo. “You’re a little underweight, but you seem healthy enough. Explain.”

Natsume chuckles. “Let me settle in first, won’t you? I trekked halfway across the country to find you.”

That gives her more questions than answers, but she supposes she can wait. He’s brought no luggage, but somehow it’s clear that he intends to stay for a while. She gives him a quick tour of the apartment before leaving to make breakfast.

Natsume… He’d died. The whole situation had been a mess, but they were certain of that much. There was no way he could have survived that incident. They’d never found his body, but given the circumstances, that was to be expected.

He wasn’t buried with the members who had sworn in. They were sent away first, in a public ceremony that all the brothers and sisters attended. Family, friends, or even mere acquaintances - they’d all lost someone that day. For Natsume, the oyabun’s own blood, that wasn’t quite right. The next day, the people who loved him the most would quietly let him go.

They’d never expected just how many people that was. Fuyuko doubted that so many would willingly come to her own funeral. She’d asked to do the eulogy for him - her twin, her best friend, her partner in crime.

She’d held back her tears till then, but it was alright. The brothers and sisters cried for him. Her parents cried for him. The tears weren’t a sign of weakness that day. They were a promise for justice.

And now, after justice has been completed, he goes and shows up like he’d never even left. Once he’s out of the shower, she’ll have to punch him again.

“Onee-chan!” yells Natsume from the hallway. “Reckon you can go and buy me some clothes? I don’t think you want me going to the mall in a towel.”

Fuyuko groans. “You can’t just disrupt my entire schedule for the day. I have classes to attend.”

Natsume strolls into the kitchen, an emerald towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He’s grabbed a magenta towel from the airing cupboard to dry his hair. He drapes it over his shoulders before taking a seat at the breakfast bar, sighing happily as the smell of coffee tickles his nose. “Where’s Peko? Get him to do it. He can babysit me while you’re gone too.”

“Peko’s busy at the moment,” says Fuyuko, climbing onto the chair beside him. She’s already eaten, but for old times’ sake, she suddenly wants to have some Coco Pops with him. “Roommate emergency, and it’s his day off today. He’ll be popping by soon enough.”

Natsume peers at her over the top of his mug, his olive eyes glinting with something she doesn’t like. “Don’t you think you’ve known each other long enough to cohabit by now?”

Fuyuko would punch him, but she won’t risk spilling coffee on him just yet. She’s also more concerned about the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. Her heart is racing. Clearly the beginnings of flu or some shit. Yeah, that’s the bitch. She’s got it now.

“Aww, onee-chan,” Natsume coos, placing his mug on the table to squish her cheeks. “You’re blushing. You’re so cute and innocent.”

He counters her punch with a bark of laughter.


End file.
